Thursday, August 8, 2013

A few years ago I thought I had found my
church. After years of feeling slightly overwhelmed by large congregations and
the group identity that often accompanies them, I stumbled upon a house church.
This church was being led by a pastor whose heart was rooted in Jesus, and not
the various factions his birth, and subsequent death, led to. For just a few
weeks I gathered in a small apartment amongst fast friends and random strangers
to go back to the beginning of the story. We broke bread together and gave testimony
of God's presence in our lives just as the earliest Christians did. Since I had
fallen in love with the pastor along with the church, when the relationship
ended I struggled to reconcile what I'd lost. A friend's community church
provided solace during those first few Sundays when I sat weeping silently in
the absence of romantic love, but surrounded by the sanctity of God's love. I moved away
shortly thereafter and soon returned to a feeling of distance between what
Christ represented in his life, and what religion has done with these truths.
Since that time I have recognized the presence of God in a number of gathered
moments (both in church and beyond), but have not been able to bring myself to
return on a regular basis.

In the past year I have been depleted and
raw in a way that is utterly and profoundly new. Now, I'm no stranger to
anxiety and depression - but I sense that what's going on lately is largely a
result of near constant movement and a depleted immune system thanks to various
ailments incurred while living abroad. Here I am with a dream of a job based on
service and empowering those in need (in other words, what I understand Jesus
stood for), but my body and personal faith has become so depleted it feels
constantly threatened by my own exhaustion. As I settle into new rhythms and
opportunities to take care of myself and rebuild my strength, I have been
humbled by a call towards faith I haven't felt in quite some time.

***Historically, my faith has always revolved
around the Holy Spirit, whose near constant presence I've felt throughout my
entire life. This sense of a higher power is so profoundly emmersed in love as
a counter to the desolation of human existence and impact on each other and
planet, that I can't help but believe. As I was exposed to the Christian
paradigm fairly early on, it has always been my lens, and I have never been
able to find any fault with Jesus. But my distrust (and frankly, distaste)for
many Christians has made it a strange and often solitary path - never wanting
to align myself with the aspects of faith that condemn so many people I
cherish, while at the same time knowing that my life depends on the ability to
rest in salvation - not just for myself, but for this devastating world we live
in.

And so in these months of renewal and
rebirth, I sense a need to get to know the Son - the name upon which so much
division and angst is born, but who for me is starting to provide incredible
comfort and care in this desert of a time. As has often been my experience, as
soon as I open that sliver of my heart and mind, provision flows forth, and I
have once again found my church.

Since returning to the US this summer, my
parents and I go to a book group studying the underground church with a handful
of senior citizens every Wednesday night. I am brought to tears nearly
every week as these beautiful souls despair over the state of the world, and
the distance our religion has created between itself and the God we believe in.
We talk weekly about Jesus and his disciples' "radical hospitality."
We explore how the Christian "church" was founded on inclusivity and
service. For it was this that made the early Christians stand out - not their
proclamations or commitments to do good.

One of the women who attends each week is
caught in the struggle of "where to start?" and "what does it
matter if no one will listen?" I studied her profile today as she repeated
these questions, her soft gray hair twisted up atop her head and the lines of
many decades framing the pain in her eyes. I told her afterwards of the
philosophy that first took me to Africa - that we can't fix all the hurt in the
world, but if each of us is open to doing something - the world will change. I
told her that every time she is willing to speak up for those in need, the
world DOES change.

***On Sundays, I still lose focus from time to
time during sermons that feel more like lectures than the discussions my brain
finds easier to process. When this happens I focus on soaking up the rays of
sun that come in through the wall of windows facing the Santa Lucia mountains.
My dad insists we sit on the right side of church so we can enjoy the rose
garden next to the sanctuary, which is never a problem as there is always
plenty of space (it's an aging population, afterall). For most people my age,
there would be nothing to tie them here - no music that stirs the heart, no
strategically quirky sermons to make them feel like they're on the right path.
But for me, it is the church I have been looking for - for it is bound to what
Jesus came to earth and died for - radical inclusion, radical service, radical
humanity.

After book group tonight one of
the attendees held back and pulled the pastor aside to ask if he could sleep at
the church tonight. He is without a physical home, but like me, has found
his church. What a privilege to receive the same welcome and to be able to
worship beside him and this community of seeking servants.